


Pay It Forward

by stop_the_fading



Series: Hunters of SHIELD [1]
Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU From Beginning Of Series, Angst, Clint Makes Up His Own Codes, Family, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nobody Gets Eaten...Yet, Slow Updates, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stop_the_fading/pseuds/stop_the_fading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is pretty sure he's going to end up with a small army of emotionally-stunted, frighteningly competent recruits by the time he retires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode One: Pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Agent Romanov is sent to take out the man who killed three of SHIELD's agents, she wasn't exactly expecting to get sucked into a world of magic and monsters. Unfortunately, that's generally what happens around Dean Winchester. Now there may be a chance for him, the same chance she was given once upon a time, and she can't really deny him that, can she?

    Natasha's first impression of Dean Winchester was that it was extremely unlikely that this was the man behind the deaths of three of SHIELD's best field agents. Her very personal grasp of the concept of 'looks can be deceiving' aside, the man was probably the sorriest thing she'd seen in a long time. Edging towards the cell curiously, she tilted her head to the side, arms crossed to project an air of defensiveness.

    The Winchester boy was reclining on the cot against the wall, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes. She could see his five-o-clock shadow, the shaking of his hands, and she could smell the booze and muck on him from across the room. She had a hard time picturing him being able to sneak up behind three agents and stab them in the back of their necks. Not without them catching a whiff of him, anyway.

    SHIELD had proof, though. Incontrovertible proof - she'd seen the video footage with her own eyes, read all the reports, gotten independent statements herself from the local law enforcement. Coulson, understanding her need to find things out for herself, had even approved her going to New Orleans to check out the crime scene. It all pointed to Dean Winchester.

    "So, what's the deal here, Red?" Shifting into a sitting position with the kind of natural grace of a born fighter, Winchester pinned her with sharp (if somewhat red-rimmed) eyes, and suddenly she could see it - she could see the killer. "FBI? CIA? MIB?"

    Natasha quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. She knew she shouldn't be lingering, shouldn't want to hear what the man had to say for himself. Her mission was straightforward - go in, take the target out, leave. But the ice-green eyes that glinted at her stayed her hand. They were old eyes, and they were angry eyes. They were also resigned eyes, speaking of a level of readiness.

    Dean Winchester knew she was there to kill him, and he was ready to die.

    Natasha had seen eyes like that before. She'd seen it in the mirror for years, especially right before...

    Tilting her head the other way, she stepped up to the bars and quirked her lips briefly. "Kind of cocky for a dead-drunk fugitive with nowhere to run."

    Snorting, Winchester let his eyes slip shut and dropped his head back against the cell wall with a dull thunk. "Do I look like I'm tryin' to run?"

    "No," she admitted. "You look like you're waiting to die."

    Those old eyes slipped open again, but he didn't look back at her. His small smirk, however, widened somewhat. "You think so?"

    "I know so. Been there."

    "Trust me, Red," he huffed, "I don't doubt that you've had some grade-A fucked-up shit in your life. You look the type. But there's no way you've been where I have."

    "I wouldn't bet money on that." Carefully, Natasha leaned sideways against the bars, careful to keep her eyes on the prisoner. "I was sent to kill you, you know."

    "I know."

    "You don't seem to care."

    "Oh...no, no. I care. I'm not really interested in pushing up daisies just yet. But here's the thing, sweetheart," he added, voice lowered into a soft purr as he leaned forward, finally looking at her again, "you're either gonna kill me now, or you aren't, and there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it at the moment, so I'm gonna face it like a man, 'cuz the alternative of snivelling like a little bitch isn't really my style."

    Natasha shrugged, pushing off the bars. "Suit yourself."

    Leaning back, Winchester closed his eyes again. They snapped open in shock, though, when he heard the clunk of a lock springing open and the squeak of the cell door as it swung outward.

    "Uh..."

    She wasn't a fool, of course - she kept her gun trained on his head steadily. But she smiled all the same at his honest confusion. "This is the part where our lives get a lot more parallel."

    "How's that?" he asked warily, sitting up straighter, forehead creased as he tried to work out this newest development.

    "I'm going to make you an offer. The same offer someone made me a long time ago."

    "Oh, yeah?" Winchester mustered up a cheeky grin. "Does it involve whipped cream and handcuffs?"

    "Probably handcuffs, but if you want whipped cream, you'll have to go elsewhere."

    "This isn't sounding as fun as I was hoping. Don't I get a dying wish?"

    "That depends. Accepting my offer comes with a chance to keep breathing."

    Winchester's grin slipped. "I'm listening, Red."

    "First, I want you to tell me about New Orleans," she insisted.

    Winchester's grin widened. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

    "Try me."

    And he did. He spun probably one of the most outlandish stories she'd ever heard - a Hollywood-worthy story involving voodoo and hoodoo (two different things, according to Winchester), a priestess with a grudge against 'hunters' (how wouldn't explain that one further when she asked him to elaborate), and three agents getting caught in the crossfire when they'd gotten too close to the truth.

    It was absolutely insane. Completely.

    Except...there had been marks on the agents, bruises shaped like symbols that defied proper explanation. There had been the string of identical murders committed by people who had never met each other. People who had subsequently gone mad. Traces of chemicals in their systems that didn't seem to have any connection to their deaths, chemicals that would easily be left in the bloodstream by the herbs Winchester listed.

    Things started to slot into space in Natasha's mind. Things that shouldn't have. Things that shouldn't seem so logical and explicable. And yet, looking at Winchester as he leaned back against the cell door from the outside, making no move to run, not even looking around for an avenue of escape, she couldn't help but notice the confidence with which he spoke.

    This mission was going to be a lot more trouble than she'd thought.

* * *

 

    "Agent Romanov, explain yourself."

    Dean peered over the assassin's shoulder curiously. The man on the other end of the video chat was older - mid-to-late thirties? early forties? - with thinning brown hair and a blank expression. His voice gave away no more than his face did, but his eyes glinted sharply at the woman in vague irritation.

    From what Dean had gathered during his and Natasha's recent discussion, this man was a kind of supervisor to her - a "handler", she'd called him, which sounded kind of unpleasant to Dean. She'd spoken of him with something that would have resembled fondness on anyone else, and there was definite respect there. When Dean had finished explaining about the supernatural circumstances being the New Orleans incident, her initial response had been simply, "I have to report to Coulson."

    He wasn't sure what it was about this Coulson guy that the femme fatale put so much store in - he seemed like a mild-mannered desk jockey to Dean. Then again, if anyone knew how dangerous it was to judge a book by its cover, it was Dean Winchester. For all he knew, this guy could be Chuck Norris.

    "It's possible that events in New Orleans aren't as clear-cut as they appeared at first, sir," Natasha was saying.

    Coulson said nothing.

    "Winchester's story is somewhat fantastic, but I'm inclined to believe him."

    "In spite of the evidence?"

    "Because of the evidence."

    Coulson's eyebrow twitched upward, the closest thing to an actual expression Dean had seen on the man so far. "New evidence, I take it."

    Natasha shrugged. "Pieces that didn't add up before. Incongruities that are not so incongruous with his version of events taken into account. There are aspects of the case that only make sense from his purpoted angle."

    "Very well. Bring him in."

    "Yeah, about that," Dean piped up, determinedly not flinching away when Coulson's keen eyes flicked towards him, "I'm not really interested in spending the rest of my natural life in an underground bunker with electrodes up my ass, so I appreciate the invitation, but, uh...no thanks."

    Before he could turn, though, Natasha's fingers closed around his wrist. It was a tight grip, and it communicated all kinds of 'don't even think about it' to him, but she was nice enough not to twist the bones of his wrist together, which was probably as close as he'd ever get to her promising to keep him alive. Dean sighed.

    "Look, sweetheart-"

    "We're not suggesting imprisonment, Mr. Winchester," Coulson interrupted blandly. "I think what my agent has in mind will be somewhat more...remunerative. For both parties."

    Dean frowned.

    "Beneficial," Coulson explained without a trace of mockery. "We're suggesting that you come on board with us, Mr. Winchester. As an agent."

    Laughing, Dean shook his head. "Yeah, sure, man."

    "Do I look like I'm joking?"

    "I can't picture you actually looking like you're joking," Dean snarked.

    He was pleasantly surprised when Coulson cracked the barest of smiles. "Wouldn't want to give up the element of surprise. And the offer is genuine. You would receive training, housing..."

    But Dean wasn't listening. "Look, man, thanks. Really. It's...real generous of you. But I don't have time for this, okay? I've got a job already, and it's past time to punch in."

    "I'm sure it can wait."

    "No, see, it really can't," Dean snapped. "The longer I wait, the more people die."

    Coulson paused, his bland expression reforming into something harder and more calculating. Dean had thought the agent's eyes had been analytic before, but now they seemed to be giving him a laser-scan, mapping out his every thought with a single sweep. He flinched away, eyes slipping to Natasha, who was giving him a similar look.

    "Is everyone in your super-secret club specially trained to give creepy stares, or is that the sort of natural talent that gets you recruited in the first place?"

    "Bit of both," Coulson replied easily. "Agent Romanov, what's your take?"

    "Not sure yet, but I think we're good here."

    "Then you will accompany Mr. Winchester on his...job, and you will then bring him in and give me a full report. Should anything change, I trust you'll inform me."

    "Yes, sir."

    "Mr. Winchester?"

    "Yeah?"

    There was that creepy laser-stare again. Dean wondered if maybe he should invest in reflective sunglasses or something to combat the unnaturalness. "Agent Romanov is a valuable asset to our division. I would hate to have to take the time to find someone marginally competent enough to replace her. Don't be the reason that happens. It would make me very testy."

    He wanted to laugh at the idea of the older man in the monkey suit being a threat. He really did. It was kind of ridiculous.

    Instead, he nodded jerkily. "I'll bear that in mind. Uh...sir."

* * *

 

    Natasha peered around the motel room curiously as Dean scrubbed the river out of his hair.

    "So. I guess you and that Coulson guy are close."

    Blinking towards the bathroom door, she shrugged, though she knew the gesture was lost on him. "Agent Coulson is my handler. I'm his asset."

    "Yeah, but that parting shot? That wasn't 'I hate the paperwork that goes along with dead assets'. That was 'what are your intentions towards my only daughter and if you say anything other than exactly what I wanna hear I will blow your face off'. Guy was in full-on protective-papa-mode."

    She shifted through the papers they'd confiscated from the jailhouse, filing away words like 'demons' and 'chupacabras' and 'vengeful spirits' for later examination as she puzzled out what Dean might be referring to.

    Coulson had been her handler from the moment she'd defected to SHIELD. It wasn't really a choice on either of their parts - Clint Barton had been Coulson's asset for a long time, and he'd been the one to bring her in, so Agent Coulson had taken responsibility for her. It had showed a sort of trust in Clint's instincts and opinions that had been so unfamiliar to the Black Widow. Coulson hadn't so much believed in her loyalty as he had believed in Clint's, unwaveringly so. It hadn't been long after that, though, that he'd apparently seen something in her that he believed in, as well.

    She'd spoken to Clint about it before. Phil Coulson had that sort of steadfast confidence in people - he saw things in them that others disregarded. Clint had confided once, loopy on pain meds and crashing from an adrenaline high, that Phil Coulson was the first person who'd ever had faith in him. Moreover, it was that faith, given without strings or prerequisites or expectations of it being returned, that made Clint try his hardest. Of all the people in his life that he'd ever tried to impress, Phil was the only person he'd ever needed to prove himself to.

    She understood that. It was an uncomfortable sort of feeling, hearing him issuing a not-very-well-veiled threat against Dean to ensure her safety. Sort of warm and satisfying. 'Valuable asset', she knew, did not mean irreplaceable. She wasn't valuable to Coulson because she was an asset. She was valuable because she was Natasha, even though she still had a hard time figuring out who 'Natasha' was. Coulson seemed to know, and that was what he considered irreplaceable. It made Natasha feel like a person, instead of a tool or weapon, and she wasn't sure she liked it all that much.

    She just could never bring herself to let Coulson down.

    "I mean," Dean continued off her silence, exiting the bathroom in a puff of steam in a pair of faded jeans and a band shirt, rubbing a ragged motel towel over his hair, "it doesn't really track, you know? If you're so important, why would he leave you alone with someone you suspected of murdering three agents in cold blood?"

    "I can handle myself," she informed him, leaning back against the dresser. "And he trusts my judgement. I said I believed you. He believes me. That's kind of how it works."

    "You people take a lot on trust for shady government stooges."

    "Hardly." She held up his father's journal. "I'm not one hundred percent sold on your story, but it fits better than our original theory, and it explains aspects of it that are otherwise inexplicable. Coulson knows I would never just take anything on faith. He knows how I work, and he might not trust you, but he trusts me to make the right call."

    "Are all creepy government asset handlers like that?"

    "No," she admitted quietly. "Agent Coulson's...rare."

    "Huh." Slumping down in the lumpy chair, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Hungover, Natasha supposed, which only served him right. "Okay, so...the only unpleasant death I have around Centennial is a chick named Constance Walsh, right? She showed up last night, nearly ran me down, dumb bitch dumped me in a river-"

    "Back up," Natasha cut in, frowning slightly. "A dead woman...showed up?"

    "Well, her spirit did. You know," he added off her raised eyebrow, "ghosts? Spirits of the restless dead? Ever seen Poltergeist?"

    "No. And there's no such thing as ghosts."

    "Really?" Leaning back in the chair, Dean smirked. "You don't even bat an eyelash when I tell you those agents were under hoodoo mind control, but ghosts are a stretch for you?"

    "There has been plenty of evidence supporting mind control in my line of work, but I've never even heard of ghosts being a possibility."

    "Which doesn't mean they aren't real - just means you haven't run into them yet. Or, if you have, you might not have recognized it for what it was." Dean shrugged. "Happens a lot. People naturally explain away things they're not willing or prepared to take as fact. But if you're gonna be tagging along on this job, you're gonna have to start believing, Red."

    She searched his face for a moment, but there was no hint of guile, no trace of madness, not even his customary smirk. There was something, though, just behind his eyes. It was savage and scared and howling, beating against him every second. Mad or not, he believed in what he was saying, and for now, she had no choice but to accept that.

    "Very well. Constance Walsh. What do we know?"

* * *

 

    "You know," Dean said as Natasha sat down in the middle of the floor, fingers twitching nervously around the grip of her handgun, "for a rookie, you did okay. Although, little tip? Shooting a ghost with regular bullets doesn't work. You need rock salt shells or consecrated iron. But, yeah. Good job."

    Natasha blinked up at him as he ran his hands over 'Baby', checking for scratches, even though he'd been the one to drive her through the wall. To bring the ghost back home. Where it was met by the ghosts of its murdered children and dragged...well, somewhere unpleasant from the look of things.

    She had been doing fine, content to wait, to analyze and reserve judgement on the ghost aspect of Dean's 'job'. It had been fairly easy, too, until Dean had driven through a pale woman in the middle of the road. And then she'd been in the backseat, barely paying Natasha any mind. Controlling the car somehow. Attacking Dean while flickering in and out of sight like a mirage, her face suddenly terrible to witness.

    "This was not something I was trained for," she said quietly, stilling her hands and holstering her sidearm. "This is...unusual."

    "For you, maybe," the hunter grunted, rubbing a finger over a small chip in the Impala's paintjob with a scowl. "Pretty much a slow day at the office for me."

    Natasha snorted. "You were almost killed by a vengeful spirit."

    "Mmhmm."

    "She had her hand in your chest."

    "Yup." Dean left off inspecting Baby to press his palm to his chest with a wince.

    "If I hadn't been there, you would have died."

    "Probably."

    Standing slowly, Natasha approached him with a smirk of her own. "You're kind of shit at your job, then."

    "Maybe," he hedged, eyes suddenly refusing to meet hers. "Or maybe I'm not used to doing it by myself."

    This brought her up short as she reached for the door handle. Images flickered through her mind - Dean alone in New Orleans, the priestess' mind-controlled lackeys converging on him - Dean sprawled out in a cell, pickled and drained - Dean not arguing against her presence even though she had clearly been unprepared and disbelieving. She peered at him as he circled around to the driver's side and jerked the door open.

    "Did they die?"

    Dean shrugged. "You want pie? I could go for a slice of pie right about now."

    She didn't particularly want pie. She wanted to contact headquarters and report to Coulson, wanted to drag this jagged-and-angry-edged mess in and leave him to someone who was good with that sort of thing, wanted to go home and wash the last twenty-four unreal hours off and pass out in front of an episode of Iron Chef. She wanted to be done with this, not in the least because she was starting to give a shit about whatever was going on with this idiot, and she had enough trouble worrying about the two idiots she already had.

    "There's a diner just outside of town that advertised some kind of chocolate thing," she offered, sliding into the Impala and curling her legs up on the seat between them. "I think it was some kind of pie."

    Dean grinned. "Point me towards it, Red."

    Sighing, Natasha let her head fall back against the seat.

    She was so going to regret this.

* * *

 

    "The supernatural."

    Dean jerked his head affirmatively, pacing along the walls, trailing his fingers over the steel in a seemingly absent sort of way. Natasha followed him with her eyes from where she sat at the table in the middle of the room. Coulson sat beside her, gaze never cutting away from the paperwork he was filling out in neat letters. Dean wondered if there were specific forms for bringing home a stray supernatural-hunting alcoholic with daddy issues, or if they had to make one just for him.

    "Ghosts, voodoo...what else?"

    "Think of all the things you don't believe in. If it's nasty and terrifying and lurks in the dark, it's probably real." Turning to lean against the wall, Dean crossed his arms and regarded Coulson, who finally set down his pen and met his gaze.

    His initial impression of the man over the video call hadn't been too far off the mark. Coulson seemed about as nondescript and unassuming as it was possible for a person to be, the kind of guy no one really paid much attention to. Mid-priced suits, neat hair, soft-spoken. He probably listened to smooth jazz and watched home improvement shows on the weekends and ate at the same deli every day. Attention to detail and efficiency were probably the only things about the guy that were remarkable.

    And yet...

    Blue eyes, keen and penetrating as they had been over the video call, were peering at him with unmasked curiosity. There was a calculating feel to the look, but not in a critical way. It was an evaluation - was whatever Dean had to offer something this SHIELD organization could use? Could Dean hack being a part of the organization? Was it worth the risk to Coulson's credibility to back Dean's inclusion?

    Of course, for all Dean knew, the agent could be trying to figure out whether or not he wanted pimento loaf for dinner.

    Coulson had been waiting in their motel room a few hundred miles out of Jericho, which hadn't really surprised Dean. He knew Natasha hadn't contacted the agent aside from a brief phone call informing him that their mission had been successful and that she was en route, and he hadn't heard anything that sounded like a coded message, but...well, it's not really code if it's noticeable, he conceded.

    What had surprised Dean was that the agent had genuinely come alone. Try as he might, Dean couldn't spot backup, couldn't detect any tails. Granted, he wasn't a government-trained super-spy, but he had a survival instinct a mile wide and two decades worth of practice. Moreover, Coulson had confirmed that he was alone and unarmed. Not that it mattered - Natasha was most definitely armed, and not likely to appreciate any attacks on her boss.

    The ride to the chopper had been uncomfortably silent, and the chopper ride itself had been uncomfortably loud. The long walk to his temporary 'quarters' (it was absolutely a holding cell, cot and chair and mini fridge aside, and he didn't know who they thought they were kidding) had actually been pleasant. Sure, there were burly armed people flanking him and office-worker-types gawping at him around corners and through doorways, but he'd had a good time getting to know Armed Guards Numbers One Through Eight. Or, rather, chattering at them until one of them actually spoke, even if it was only a demand for silence.

    Natasha and Coulson had been leading the way, and somewhere towards the beginning of his monologue, the older man had glanced back over his shoulder, one eyebrow quirked. He'd said something to Natasha, quiet and unemotional, but whatever it had been had amused the redhead, who had also glanced back at him with a bit of a grin.

    He couldn't complain about the treatment. The only person who knew the full story was Natasha, and as much as Coulson apparently trusted her, he didn't seem like the kind of guy that didn't take precautions, especially when it can to his home base. Besides, it had been kind of flattering.

    "Mr. Winchester." When Dean had jerked himself back to the present and acknowledged him, Coulson continued. "I'm sure you understand that this seems incredibly unbelievable."

    "Oh, I understand. I understand perfectly." Pulling out one of the chairs facing the two agents, Dean slumped into it with an odd sort of slouching grace. "There's a reason people like me operate on the down-low. Well, a couple of reasons, and one of the big ones is that it's hard to kill what needs killing from the padded room at Three Pines Sanitarium."

    "That would make things difficult. Not, I suspect, impossible for a man of your talents." Slipping a folder from the bottom of the pile of paperwork, Coulson opened it and slid it over to Dean. His own face stared up at him from the top of the pile of reports. "You're not so invisible as you'd like to think, Mr. Winchester. Up until now, it was assumed that you and your accomplices were psychotics - the grave desecrations and Satanic symbolism you leave in your wake suggests a theistic undercurrent - and the only reason I'm giving your story any credence right now is because Agent Romanov has stated that she has witnessed a supernatural occurrence with her own eyes and outside any possible influence on your part. And I understand that sharing this kind of information goes against your instincts, but if you'd like me to refrain from making a call to Three Pines Sanitarium, I'd suggest you cooperate to the fullest extent of your abilities."

    Dean flicked his eyes up to Coulson and snorted. "Trust me, M, this is me cooperating. You don't want to know what I'm like when I'm not cooperating."

    "M?" Looking from Coulson to Dean, Natasha's brow furrowed.

    Dean rolled his eyes. "You have to start watching more movies."

    "I preferred the novels, to be honest," Coulson admitted, leaning back in his seat. "But that's neither here nor there. The offer is as follows, Mr. Winchester. You may choose between two options. Choosing Option A means you will remain under surveillance for a period of no less than six months, during which time you will be assessed and monitored. At this point, we will also be assessing the veracity of your claims that our agents were under the control of mystical forces at the time they were killed. When six months are up, you will be given a handler, who will oversee your training and performance reviews for a probationary period of six additional months - this period will include soft missions to test your ability to perform the duties of a SHIELD agent satisfactorily in the field. At the end of the year, should you perform to our standards, you will be taken off probation, made a junior agent, and sent into the field."

    Dean tilted his head. "Okay. And Option B?"

    "Option B means we lock you in a maximum security solitary cell built several hundred feet below a sea bed in the frozen north for the rest of your natural life."

    "Not really loving my options." Dean clasped his hands behind his head and grinned. "How about I scoot on outta here and neither of us ever hears from the other ever again?"

    "That's not an option at all, Mr. Winchester."

    "It's the same deal I got, Dean," Natasha murmured.

    "Oh, yeah," he sneered, "and I can see how well that's turned out for you, swinging on the end of a leash like a fucking dog, jumping through hoops for a pat on the head from your masters. No thanks. I don't do leashes, and I don't do cages, and I only take orders from one man, and you sure as hell ain't him."

    Coulson's expression didn't so much as twitch, but something flickered behind his eyes. He rose, Natasha following, her expression somewhat more expressive - she looked...wistful?

    "You have a week to make up your mind," Coulson informed him as the pair left.

    Groaning, Dean dragged his hands down over his face, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

    This sucked.

* * *

 

    "Wish we could drag Barton back here," Natasha opined as she watched Dean pace the room again and again. Phil had thought, at first, that he was looking for structural weaknesses, or perhaps ensuring that he was always presenting a moving target. After a while, though, it became apparent that, when agitated, Dean simply had trouble sitting still.

    Phil leaned back against the terminal where Natasha sat, never glancing up from the security footage. "You think he'd do better?"

    "I think they have a lot in common. I don't know what Clint was like when he was first recruited, but I can see a lot of similarities between them now. You said he was like this?"

    "In a way." Tilting his head, Phil watched Dean make another circuit around the room. "Clint was still loyal to his mentor when we caught up with him, even though the man had skipped on him. He didn't trust anyone, had no respect for authority. Spent the entire probationary period stepping over every line he could find - testing boundaries, that sort of thing, trying to see where he stood."

    "It isn't easy when you've spent your life acting as an extension of someone else," Natasha allowed in a neutral tone.

    "No." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Phil thought back to those early months. He'd been the one to bring Clint in, to give him a chance. For a while, all anyone could ever talk about what how Phil Coulson had made a colossal mistake, and there were even a few brief, stressful moments where he'd almost believed it.

    All it took in those moments was a reminder of the look in Clint's eyes when he'd been cornered. Out of ammo, weak from hunger, soaked to the bone, bleeding in several places, and pinned against a dead-end wall on the business end of a gun in the hands of a no-doubt pissed-looking government agent, the archer had turned and faced him, folding his hands behind his head with a smirk.

    "Hope you're a good shot," he'd rasped, eyes bright with fever and anger and resignation, "'cuz I'd hate to suffer."

    Phil had shot him in the leg. He was, after all, and exceptional shot. And there might have been a bit of suffering, but in the coming years as Clint's handler, Phil felt the archer had gotten plenty of his own back.

    Phil looked at the screen again. His mind's eye replaced Clint's smirking defiance in the face of death with the  image of Dean Winchester, leaning back in his seat, hands clasped the same way, corner of his mouth pulled up in the same sort of smirk, the same wild defiance in his eyes.

    He wondered if he was just a fucked-up-smart-ass magnet, or if this was a karmic thing. He wondered where this habit his assets had of 'paying it forward' would end. Would he have a string of mentally unstable recruits stretching all the way down to Mexico by the time he retired?

    Mostly, he wondered if it was worth sticking around tonight or if he should leave in time to stop by his favorite deli before it closed.

* * *

 

    "Do you like roast beef, Mr. Winchester?"

    "You know, you can call me Dean," the man muttered, not taking his eyes off the ceiling as he tipped back in his chair. "I mean, since we're so close and everything."

    Smiling a bit, Phil tossed a bag onto the table and pulled out a chair. "I come bearing sandwiches. Best in town, I guarantee it."

    "Bribery, Agent Coulson? How underhanded of you." Slamming the chair back on all four legs, Dean reached for the bag regardless. "Roast beef? Got mustard?"

    "Of course."

    "Hmm."

    He watched as the younger man unwrapped his sandwich. Clint, when he'd been given food by unfamiliar people, had refused at first, poking and sniffing and studying suspiciously. It had taken a while for him to come to terms with the fact that they really did want him around and that no one was going to poison him on Phil's watch. Dean, it seemed, differed greatly from Clint here. He pulled apart the sandwich, yes, but that seemed to be so he could rearrange its innards. Meat, cheese, tomato, meat, lettuce. Phil wondered what the reasoning there was.

    As though reading his mind (though his confusion could well have shown on his face), Dean grinned. "Tastes better this way," he explained, taking an unbelievably large bite. "It's not pie," he said around his mouthful, "but it's a start."

    "Not worried we're trying to drug you?"

    Dean shrugged. "Gotta eat. 'Sides," he continued, swallowing, "I'm already telling you all the facts. You've got me in your little habitrail, boxed up nice and neat. You have the advantage. Why would you bother drugging me now?"

    "Are you giving us all the facts?" Phil unwrapped his own sandwich delicately, reaching into the bag and pulling out two cans of Dr. Pepper. "Because you seem to be hedging around a few details. Hunters, for instance. You've mentioned the word a lot, but you don't seem inclined to elaborate."

    "Not my secret to tell," Dean answered, reaching for a soda. "What else you got?"

    "Your father."

    Dean froze, eyes fixed on a point over Phil's shoulder. The emotions that flit across his face at that moment were fascinating. Fear, concern, pride, determination, betrayal, anger. They were familiar to Phil. He'd seen them before, when talking to Clint about Trickshot.

    "I'm going to take a guess here," Phil began gently as Dean cracked open his soda, shaking off the sudden paralysis. "I'm guessing that 'hunter' is what you are. The job you alluded to - you call it hunting. And I'm guessing your father got you into it - reports go back to before you would have been old enough to participate. You had a companion, as well. Another boy. A brother, I'd say. How am I doing so far?"

    Dean set down his sandwich, eyes hard but not meeting Phil's.

    "I'll take your silence to mean I'm on track. I don't know how one gets into this hunting business, but I'd assume it involves some kind of run-in with the things you're hunting. That, plus the fact that it was only the three of you, would suggest that the run-in involved your mother."

    The younger man's face tightened around the eyes, but he stayed silent.

    "Now, baby brother was easy enough to track down, tucked away safely at Stanford, living the normal life. And now you're on your own. Agent Romanov told me you said you weren't used to doing the job alone. From the way things went both in New Orleans and in Jericho, I'd say you were caught off guard and unprepared for being on the job by yourself. Unexpected abandonment. My first instinct, given the nature of your lifestyle, would be to assume that your father is dead."

    Dean pressed his lips together.

    Phil tilted his head, popping his own soda open and taking a sip. "But that's not true, is it?" He set the can down with a clunk. "If it was, you wouldn't be so adamant about refusing our offer. You said you only follow the orders of one man. Follow - present tense. This implies that the man whose orders you follow is alive, and the only man I can think of who would inspire that kind of loyalty in you would be your father. So, if he's not dead...where is he?"

    "Fuck you," Dean hissed, pushing back from the table, he paced to the wall, resuming his endless circling. "You don't know what you're talking about."

    "If I didn't, you wouldn't have reacted the way you did to what I was saying," Phil pointed out. "And you may not think so, but I understand. Loyalty is important, especially to the man who raised you and looked after you. You wouldn't be the first potential recruit we've had who refused for similar reasons."

    "Whatever."

    "You sound just like him, you know," Phil mused absently, folding his hands in front of his face and regarding Dean curiously.

    This got the hunter's attention. He blinked, eyes narrowed in confusion. "Like who?"

    "Another recruit of mine. He's deep undercover at the moment, but I hope you get the chance to meet him. I think the two of you would get along...or tear each other's faces off. It's hard to say, knowing him."

    "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't really give a fuck about your recruit. Any of your recruits."

    "Not even Agent Romanov?" Polishing off his sandwich, Phil balled up the paper and tucked it into the bag. "After she help save your life?"

    "I didn't ask her to."

    "You didn't have to. You should know that. How many times did the people you'd saved actually ask you to? Or bother to thank you?"

    "I bought her pie," was the petulant reply.

    "She told me. She gave me their card, since they serve strawberry rhubarb pie. She knows it's my favorite. But then, I'm sure she just did that so her master would put a little extra kibble in her bowl."

    Dean cringed at the bite Phil had opted to put into his words, and the agent smiled inwardly. It was as close to a reprimand as he was willing to get this early in Dean's progress, but the knowledge that the younger man was remorseful at all was a positive sign.

    "You see, Mr. Winchester, this isn't an obedience school. That's not what we're about here. Admittedly, Natasha seems a bit..."

    "Vulcan?"

    "If you like. But that's not something we did to her. It's something we're trying to help her undo, if you follow me. And it's clearly working, because you're the first mark she's spared since joining SHIELD, and I'm positive that had this incident taken place in her first few years with us, the outcome would have been much more fatal on your part."

    "Why?"

    It was the question Phil had been expecting, but he took the time to consider his response, anyway. "I suppose," he said slowly, looking Dean in the eyes, "it's because she saw something in you worth saving."

    "Joke's on her," Dean huffed, voice shaking behind the forced bravado. "I'm good for shooting things and bullshitting my way into crime scenes, and that's about it. There's no one you have here that couldn't do that better, faster, and more effectively than I could, and we both know it."

    "I didn't say it had to do with your technical skills," Phil pointed out. "I'm sure those are up to par, of course, but it's not about that."

    "Then what is it about?"

    Phil smiled. "I met a kid once. Young, stubborn, loudmouthed. He was working on the wrong side of the law. Killed a lot of people, pulled a lot of heists. Not his idea, of course - he was following someone else. Someone he looked up to, someone he relied on. Someone he wanted to care about him. So he did a lot of stupid things, things that put him on our radar in a bad way. He was good, too. Way too good for regular law enforcement, so it was down to us to take him out.

    "I chased that kid all over hell and gone. That mentor of his? As soon as he caught wind that we were on the kid's trail, he dropped him without so much as a 'so long'. Left him to the wolves, as it were. And when I finally cornered him, sick and tired and not fighting back, I took my sidearm and I shot him."

    Dean quirked an eyebrow.

    "In the leg. I'd had my orders - he was dead the moment SHIELD noticed him - but sometime during that chase, I'd decided that killing him would have been a waste of potential."

    Phil watched as Dean's eyes flicked around the room, shoulders hunched unconsciously as he sat down heavily on his cot. "So, what, I have potential? As what, and agent? A weapon?"

    "As a person, Dean. I didn't spare that kid because he was talented or because I thought we could wield him like a blunt instrument. I spared him because I could see him turning out to be a good man in spite of everything, because he was already turning out to be a good man. A little bent and dented and rusted over, maybe, but good nonetheless. And killing him before he'd gotten a real chance to be that would have been a lamentable waste."

    Dean rolled his eye. "Well, gosh, that's an adorable bedtime story."

    "It's the story of the recruit who reminded me so much of you," Phil admitted. "And he's also the recruit who decided to go against his own kill orders and bring Agent Romanov in to us."

    "So this is kind of a habit you guys have? Bringing home strays?"

    "Sometimes I suspect we're running a kennel instead of a top-secret international government peace-keeping organization." He paused. "If you're not going to finish your sandwich, you should put it away."

    He wasn't expecting an answer, so the double bird he was flipped seemed like a bit of a bonus.

    "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

* * *

 

    "So, what? He's a demon hunter?"

    "Something like that." Natasha lunged, going for Clint's throat with the end of her bo staff. "With an attitude that makes you look positively cooperative."

    "Damn." The archer moved through his dodge sideways, sweeping around her to whack her in the small of her back. "Ha! Two to me!"

    Rolling her eyes, Natasha spun to face him, sliding back a couple of feet. "And how many to me? Six?"

    "Shut up."

    "So you should talk to him."

    Clint blinked at the seeming non-sequitur, and Natasha used the opportunity to jab him in the shoulder with her bo. "Ow! Hey! Not fair!"

    "Don't whine, Clint. It's not cute."

    "Everything I do is cute."

    "Will you talk to him?"

    Signalling a time-out, Clint leaned on his staff and peered at his heart-sister.

    She'd been out of it ever since he'd come back to find out she'd taken in a stray - much as he had with her, as Coulson had with him. He knew how it was - you held someone's life in your hands, you took responsibility for that life, and all the pain-in-the-ass baggage that came with it. It was terrifying, and exhilarating, and incredibly bewildering. It was made somewhat more difficult by the fact that none of them were particularly good at feelings-related stuff. Which, now he thought of it, was a little strange, considering so much of their lives were nothing but feelings. Uncomfortable, broken, unpleasant feelings, mostly. He would have thought they'd be better equipped to deal with that in others.

    Well, Coulson was good at it. He might not always be aware of the reasons behind the things his assets were thinking and feeling, since they weren't exactly big on sharing details, but he seemed uniquely adept at picking up on the feelings themselves. More importantly, he knew how to handle them, what to say, or (and sometimes this was the bit that made Clint even more proud of his handler) what not to say.

    "Coulson's not getting anywhere?"

    Natasha balanced her own staff across her shoulders, her wrists pressing into the ends as she stretched, cracking her back idly. "I don't know. Possibly. Well...knowing him, probably."

    "Then I don't think it'd be a good idea for me to fuck up whatever he's got going. You know him. He's got a plan, and until he tells me it involves me, I'm not gonna stick myself between them."

    Sighing, Natasha tossed her bo staff over her head and caught it neatly. "You're right. I don't know what's wrong with me."

    Clint shrugged. "He's your recruit. It's like finding a kitten in a gutter - you can't turn away, ya know?"

    "You wouldn't say that if you met him."

    Grinning, Clint blocked her strike and danced backwards. "Guess I'll have to meet him, then."

* * *

 

    "No."

    "What do you mean, no?"

    "I mean," Coulson said pleasantly, not looking up from his computer screen, "no."

    Hopping up easily, Clint balanced on the edge of Coulson's desk, folding his arms across his knees. "Yeah, I got that part. What do you mean?"

    "I mean no, Barton. No. Just no."

    "Nat thinks I could help."

    "Not necessary, agent. I have the situation in hand."

    "Aw, come on. Do I at least get to say hi?"

    Coulson paused, actually glancing up from the screen at his asset. "Why?"

    "Oh, come on. Nat brought home a new addition to the family! Nat! Nat defied orders and let a mark live! Why would I not want to go poke him with a metaphorical stick?"

    "Because this is the most delicate stage of the recruitment, Agent Barton, and I can't have you stumbling in and stepping all over what I've done."

    Clint flinched. True, he wasn't the most delicate of people. He had a tendency to say what he was thinking, and maybe he kinda-sorta stomped on other people's feelings on occasion, but they were never the important people. And when he did accidentally stomp on Coulson's or Nat's feelings, he apologized. Kind of. Half a muffin counted as an apology, right?

    Of course it did.

    Coulson sensed, once again, that feelings were happening in his general vicinity, and he looked over at Clint properly and sighed.

    "I'm sorry, Barton, that was uncalled for. This part is just the one I really hate."

    Clint cocked his head, mulling that over. "Because it feels manipulative?"

    "Aren't you supposed to be at the range right now, agent? Tormenting the probationaries?"

    "Ahh, come on. I can postpone a little probie-poking to make time for my boss' newest project. C'mon, sir," he continued, gentling his tone. "I just wanna help."

    Another sigh. "I know. And maybe you can, but I don't want you talking to him just yet. Okay?"

    "Sure. What can I do?"

    Coulson shut his laptop, which would have sent Clint rocking back on his heels if he hadn't still been teetering comfortably at the edge of his handler's desk.

    "I'd like some advice."

* * *

 

    Dean looked up at the light rap at his door. "Come in."

    He wondered about the knocking as Coulson entered. A bid to give him a sense of privacy? An attempt to make it seem like they afforded him basic human respect? Giving him time to get his pants on?

    Not that Dean bothered to put his pants on for company most days.

    The agent offered him no explanation when he asked, though, simply tipped his head to the side in an odd sort of nod. "How are you feeling today, Dean?"

    "Oh, fine." Dean gestured around the featureless steel room. "I mean, what could I possibly have to bitch about? I get a lumpy cot, a table - hell, I've even got a place to store half a sandwich, if I squish it in real tight. I'm livin' the dream."

    "I understand it's not the most comfortable situation-"

    "Oh, you do, huh? You know what's really uncomfortable, Double-Oh-Shifty? Being spied on day and night," he answered, jerking a thumb at the blinking red light in the corner.

    "That's not where the camera is, actually. It's a dummy, in case the occupant has any ideas about disabling surveillance. The real cameras are better hidden." Sitting in his usual chair, Coulson held out his hands. "And I'm sure someone as clever as you have shown yourself to be can understand why we would want to keep tabs on you. You've neither made a commitment to our organisation, nor proven yourself to be the most cooperative of people."

    "Didn't we have this conversation?" Dean sat across from Coulson and kicked his feet up onto the tabletop, nearly bringing his heel down on Coulson's hand. "Trust me, when I'm being uncooperative, you'll know it."

    "And if I told you I came bearing a bit of incentive to ensure that you were even more cooperative in the future?"

    "Oh, yeah?" Leaning forward, Dean bared his teeth in a grin that he knew to be a bit less than reassuring. "Is this where those electrodes up the ass we talked about come into play?"

    "No. This is where I make you a promise."

    If Dean hadn't been watching the older man extremely carefully, he might not have noticed the brief flick of his eyes towards the ceiling. The hunter filed that away for future reference and leaned in further. "I don't want a pony for Christmas, if that's what you're thinking. I've heard that promise before. It's all lies. Lies, I tell you."

    "I was thinking more along the lines of locating your father for you, but if a pony is what you really want, we can swing that, instead."

    The words buzzed in his ears. 'Locating you father'. What did that even mean? Dragging him into the Impossible Missions Foundation, too? Locking him up under the Arctic Circle, like they'd threatened to do to him?

    "We're not talking recruitment for him," Coulson was saying softly. "We'd simply get a fix on his location. You could go in, talk to him, see that he's okay. Or not. We could simply help you keep tabs on him. Either way you want it."

    Dean shook his head, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "I don't...he wouldn't like that. He doesn't like feds on his ass."

    "Then it's a good thing we're not all that concerned with what he wants," Coulson replied bluntly. "This is about you, Dean. It's been about you from the moment Agent Romanov spared your life. Just you, and what you want."

    "Right. Not about what you want at all."

    "What I want right now, Dean, is to be at home in my sweats and fuzzy slippers eating Thai food out of cardboard cartons with crap chopsticks watching Mythbusters. That's pretty much it. And I don't get that until I get an answer from you. So, yes, this is maybe a little bit about what I want. But the decision? That's not about me, or about Natasha, or about your father, or about anyone else. This one is on you. Entirely on you. That's why I gave you time to think about it. I was hoping that, instead of taking that time to think about what your father would want, you'd start thinking about what you wanted."

    He wanted to scream. He wanted to flip the table over, to throw the chairs across the room. He wanted to punch stupid fucking Coulson's stupid fucking face in. He wanted to get out of that little cereal box of a room and kill something. He wanted to be cruising the highway with Baby, making a study of which of the American diners had the best of which kind of pie.

    'Maybe I'm not used to doing it alone.'

    He wanted things to be like they were. Dean, Sammy, Dad, roughing it and saving innocent people and answering to no one.

    'He trusts me to make the right call.'

    He couldn't do that without ruining Sammy's carefully-constructed life. He'd seen him, through the windows of his fancy school, smiling, laughing, surrounded by friends who didn't hog the hot water or save their porn to his hard drive. And there had been a girl - pretty little thing, blonde and sweet, and she smiled at Sammy like he was her personal sun. As much as he missed him, as much as he wished he could just drag him out of that life, he couldn't do that. Sammy's happiness mattered to Dean, more than any of his fucked-up abandonment issues. And Dad had wanted him to look out for Sammy, hadn't he? Well, Dean couldn't do much better than leaving him in his safe little bubble of normal, could he?

    'She saw something in you worth saving.'

    These people...they wanted Dean. Wanted him, even though they had to know by now that he was fucked-up and incomplete and probably not even fully a person. Dad and Sammy, man, they'd stuck with him. For years, they'd stuck with him, because nothing is more important than family, even when that family is doing nothing but dragging you down and holding you back. He couldn't blame them when they left, Sammy first, for better things, then Dad, for reasons unknown. It made sense, he guessed. They hadn't chosen him, after all - he was what they were saddled with. You can't pick your family, after all.

    'If he's not dead, where is he?'

    This way...this way, he could check up on Dad. Make sure he was doing okay without Dean. Not that he wouldn't be, the man was the best there was. But just in case. And they'd probably let him check in on Sammy, too. Make sure he was doing good in school, make sure his girl was treating him right (the way she looked at him, Dean suspected she was). Maybe they'd let him out to watch him graduate - that had to be soon, right? It had been a few years...

    'This is about you, Dean. Just you, and what you want.'

    "I think..."

    "No, Dean. This isn't something you can take back. I want you to be sure." Coulson stood up. "I'll come back tomorrow."

    "No." Dean stood up, turning to face the wall so Coulson couldn't see the flush of his cheeks or the glint in his eyes. "No, I'm sure. You find my dad, and you promise to let me see my brother's graduation, and I'll sign on for this fantastic voyage."

    He couldn't see Coulson's face. He was probably looking smug and satisfied, thinking his mind tricks had been what did it. But as the door clicked shut, Dean braced both hands against the wall, head bent, eye squeezed shut, and Sammy and his lady bloomed behind his eyelids, diplomas in hand, little house, white picket fence, and all. It faded into Dad, on the road, doing the job, content in his solitude without two kids to lug around.

    He could have done it. Wandered the country himself, saving people, hunting things. Doing the job Dad had taught him, making sure innocent lives weren't lost. He could have done it, all by himself, without having to drag Sammy out of school, without having to beg Dad to let him back in on the hunt.

    He just didn't want to. He just didn't want to be alone anymore.

    'Just you, and what you want.'

* * *

 

    Clint watched through the ceiling vent as the new guy braced himself against the wall, shaking hands steadied as they splayed against the cool metal, and wondered what he was thinking.

    He'd seen what Nat had meant, about the guy having an attitude. And he could see what was behind it, the same knotted up bullshit that was behind the archer's own personality defects. The pink that blossomed across his ridiculously pretty face (really, guys that pretty had no business joining SHIELD - Clint was going to have to fight for his resident-number-one-sex-idol status with this guy), the way his face had crumpled when he'd agreed to join. It was all familiar.

    He remembered the feeling. Being wanted. Being singled out and having all your worst wounds poked at and snapping back and being wanted still. Again. Wondering how long it would last this time. Wanting to run before you could get tossed away. Again. That stupid, stupid hope that maybe this time, it would be different, and you wouldn't fuck everything up. That you would be strong enough, smart enough, just plain good enough to be allowed to stay.

    He knew what was lying underneath the shiver of Winchester's hands, the hunch of his shoulders, the darting of his eyes. He wondered if Coulson knew.

    As he inched back down the duct towards the gym, Clint found himself thinking of Nat, of how desperate he'd been to help her, to give her what Coulson had given him. Thinking that maybe, if he passed a bit of that good faith along, it would prove that he'd become the good person Coulson had always, for reasons unknown, believed Clint to be. He bet that was part of Nat's reasoning, too, and he hoped the new guy would hack it, at least for her sake.

    He didn't think on it for too long, though, instead crouching in the duct at his destination. He pulled out a straw and a bag of dried peas.

    There were probies to poke.

* * *

 

    "So. SHIELD."

    Natasha didn't answer, watching Dean circle his new room in much the same way he had the old one. This one was darker in color, with a more comfortable bunk, a sturdy desk, a separate bathroom. Best of all, she was sure he felt, was the lack of cameras.

    "What rank do I have to be to get a television?"

    "Post-probationaries get cable and internet," she replied, easing into the armchair in one corner. "You've got a little ways to go."

    "Do I at least get a radio?"

    "I'll see what I can do, but don't get your hopes up."

    "Jesus," Dean groaned, flopping back on the bed. "This is like punishment."

    "You have to earn things in SHIELD, just like in real life. You earn trust, you get a reward."

    "Yeah? And how do they earn my trust?"

    Natasha raised an eyebrow. "You're not dead yet, are you?"

    "Ha ha." Sitting up, Dean pinned her with a contemplative look. "I gotta ask...why?"

    "Why what?"

    "Don't play that shit with me, Red. You know 'why what'."

    Curling her feet up under her, Natasha sighed. "I'm not sure. I just...saw something, I guess. Something worth keeping around."

    Dean looked away, and the awkward silence stretched.

    Leaning back, Natasha stared at the ceiling. She really wished Clint hadn't had to scamper off on another mission so quickly - the bastard could have at least stuck around to meet their new colleague-to-be. And he'd taken Coulson with him, and damned if anyone else wanted to try their luck with the loudmouthed new recruit, which pretty much left her to deal with him on her own.

    "So...am I even allowed to go anywhere?"

    "With a full agent escorting you, you can visit the mess and the gym during open hours. And you're allowed in your handler's office, when you get one."

    Dean groaned. "This sucks."

    Allowing a small smile, Natasha threw his only throw pillow at him.

    "You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Augh. AUGH. THIS WAS ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE, LIKE, FIVE PAGES LONG. HOW IS IT ALMOST FIVE TIMES THAT LENGTH. HOW. (Too much rambling...that's it, isn't it? I KNEW IT.)


	2. All The Better To Eat You With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson's promised to find John Winchester, and if all he has to go on are some coordinates, he's gonna make the most of them. But now he and his assets are stuck in the middle of the woods with a group of civilians who are also looking for someone...and there's something big and bad in the dark, and they'll be lucky if all it does is huff and puff.

    "You know, this would probably go a lot faster if you told me what we were looking for, sir."  
  
    Coulson's gaze was steady as ever, and he smoothed a hand over the page he was reading in the battered old book he'd taken to carrying everywhere. "We're looking for John Winchester, Agent Barton. You know that."  
  
    "In the middle of the woods."  
  
    "This is where the coordinates he left for Dean led."  
  
    "Right." Heaving a sigh, Clint crossed his arms and leaned back against a tree, the catch of the bark against his tac vest somehow soothing. "To the middle of the woods. In the middle of nowhere. In the middle of Colorado."  
  
    "Yes. Is there something about the situation that you aren't clear on?"  
  
    "Yeah. Why?"  
  
    "I made a promise, Barton."  
  
    Clint tamped down a grin, exchanging a look with Natasha, who was likewise reclining against a tree, watching as their handler flipped through the book.  
  
    It was a journal, as the newest member of the SHIELD family had explained to Coulson. His father had kept it since he'd started 'hunting', writing down everything he knew about the supernatural, from habits and signs to how to kill each and every creepy thing he'd come across.  
  
    Clint had watched from the vents as his handler had picked it up for the first time, watched Winchester's shoulders straighten and his chin lift, projecting a sort of pride. He could tell it was an important possession to the younger man, something tangible left of the man who had abandoned him. He wondered what the kid was thinking - that his father had left it behind as a sign he trusted Dean? Or maybe it was simply a security blanket - a piece of the man he could hold on to.  
  
    Either way, Clint had been surprised that, when Coulson had asked if he could borrow it, use it to help track John down, Winchester had barely hesitated before agreeing.  
  
    "Whatever helps," he'd said roughly, turning back to his game of solitaire with a blank expression.  
  
    Clint had stayed a bit after that, watching the hunter stare down at the cards, gaze focused on something far away.  
  
    Maybe it was creepy, the way he tended to follow Winchester around the compound, tracking him silently through the vents. Clint had never really been the stalker sort, after all, but this wasn't just any wet-behind-the-ears new recruit. This was Nat's stray, someone Coulson was vouching for. This guy affected Clint's people, the tiny pseudo-family he'd carefully gathered around himself. Therefore, everything he did was of interest to the archer.  
  
    Okay, so maybe Clint had trust issues. He could deal with that. It's not like anyone was expecting him to immediately accept Dean Winchester into the inner circle with open arms just because Nat had a soft spot for the guy. And Coulson, who always knew when Clint was lurking about, hadn't brought his new hobby up even once. He knew his handler understood.  
  
    And yet...he couldn't help but like the guy. It disgruntled him, because it was swaying his opinion on Winchester's trustworthiness, and nobody knew better than Clint that just because you were fond of someone, it didn't mean they wouldn't stab you in the back. The hunter's likeability wasn't what was up for debate. His loyalty was.  
  
    Clint's mind automatically drifted back to the events of the afternoon before Coulson had tapped him for their little Where's Waldo adventure. He hadn't even been shadowing Winchester at that point, actually - witnessing what he did had been a happy accident, and it was annoying, because it had definitely tipped the scales far into Winchester's favor.  
  
    A couple of the tactical guys - a usually-likeable operative by the name of Rumlow and a few of his team - had been sparring in the gym, and it had soon become apparent that they were taking it harder on one of their number than was strictly necessary. Clint had been napping in the rafters, perfectly comfortable to snooze his scheduled meetings away, when a cry of pain had jolted him awake.  
  
    "Jesus, Thompson, where were you looking?"  
  
    Sighing, Clint had rolled onto his belly and peered down at the scene, brow furrowed in annoyance. He hated being woken up when he didn't have to be awake (meetings notwithstanding) almost as much as he hated people getting picked on.  
  
    Tim "Tom" Thompson - a sort of unwieldy new recruit with more elbow than he knew what to do with, and more of an analyst than a field agent - had been crouched on the mats, hands over his face in an effort to stem the flow of blood from his nose. The rest of the team had surrounded him in a vaguely menacing manner, rolling their eyes and laughing amongst themselves, Rumlow himself standing a bit off to the side with his arms crossed, shaking his head, brow furrowed in what looked to be genuine concern.  
  
    Groaning internally, Clint had pushed himself up into a crouch. He knew Rumlow pretty well, actually - the guy was a fair man, a bit of a dick sometimes, but fair. In this instance, though, Clint worried he'd be more dick than fair. There tended to be a bit of a culture of bullying when it came to new SHIELD recruits. Not because everyone in SHIELD was inherently cruel (although there were always a few rotten apples), it was just that sometimes people tried to use 'tough love' and ended up just being abusive.  
  
    Clint knew all about the pitfalls of misused 'tough love'.  
  
    Before he could make a further move, though, a sharp, "hey!" had rung out. Everyone had stilled, Clint included, eyes immediately flicking towards the door as Dean Winchester had strode through, his gait the perfect mix of swagger and stalk, putting Clint suddenly in mind of Shere Khan from The Jungle Book. This had been further embedded in Clint's consciousness by the toothy, not-at-all-as-friendly-as-it-appeared grin the man had flashed.  
  
    "This a private lesson, or can I audit?" Winchester had rumbled, his expression edging from grin into borderline-snarl territory.  
  
    Rumlow's team had shifted almost unconsciously, but their leader was not easily intimidated by a newbie armed with nothing but a grin and an attitude. He'd stepped forward confidently and given Winchester an appraising look before speaking.  
  
    "Help yourself," he'd offered with a shrug and a flash of his own teeth. "We're just trying to get Thompson here field-ready."  
  
    "Yeah," Winchester had drawled. "I can see that."  
  
    The disapproval in his voice hadn't even been a little masked, and Rumlow's shoulders had stiffened automatically. For his part, Winchester had moved straight to ignoring Rumlow entirely, instead crouching down in front of poor Thompson, grabbing the back of his head and tipping it forward, pulling his hands away from his nose and pinching the bridge. Thompson had winced, but Winchester hadn't paid that much mind.  
  
    "Like this," he'd said. "Man, they teach you how to break a man's nose, but not how to deal with getting your nose broken?"  
  
    "I doe 'ow duh deal with a broke' dose," Thompson had snapped defensively.  
  
    Winchester had laughed. "Okay, tough guy, I hear ya. Now, wanna tell me what you did to get your team to play Whack-A-Mole with your face?"  
  
    "Kid can't duck to save his life," Rumlow had answered when Thompson had simple stared at Winchester uncomprehendingly. "He's slow, way too slow. Not to mention, he leaves his left side wide open every damned time."  
  
    "Huh." Winchester had ducked his head a little to catch Thompson's eyes. Clint hadn't been able to see them from where he was perched, but something in them must have amused the hell out of Winchester, because he laughed. "Nice, kid. You know, you remind me a lot of someone who had the same damned problem. Gangly moose of a guy, all knees, you know? He had the same problem when we were kids."  
  
    'When we were kids,' Clint had mused. Must be talking about his brother.  
  
    "Forget not being able to dodge a fist, that dude couldn't dodge a sloth taking a swing. You know why?"  
  
    Thompson had shaken his head, shoulders hunched.  
  
    "Cuz he's a friggin giant," Winchester had snapped. "By the time he could get his head down under my swing, I'd long since swung. But you know what? I haven't managed to land a hit on him in years."  
  
    Thompson had blinked, still bewildered. "Uh..."  
  
    "See, this guy learned enough about how I fought, he could predict my moves long before I'd even thought them." Winchester's shoulders had straightened then, chest puffing out with pride.  
      
    Yeah, Clint had thought bemusedly, if not a bit sadly. Definitely talking about his little brother.  
  
    "These guys, they're your team, right?" Off Thompson's nod, Winchester had shrugged. "There you go, then - there's nobody on earth who can kick their asses better than you can. You just gotta learn how they move, and be sure you get out of their way before they even think about swinging, and you'll be fine."  
  
    "Doesn't really work against someone you've never fought before," Rumlow had reminded the newbie.  
  
    Finally favoring the other man with his attention, Winchester had stood, his full height somewhat more impressive than one would think. "That's why you have a team, isn't it? The point of a team is to have each other's backs. You're there to make sure he doesn't have to worry about ducking, and he's there to make sure you don't have to worry about giving yourself a headache with all that pesky thinking."  
  
    Off Rumlow's narrowed eyes, Winchester had grinned again, more personable than before. "Nobody's perfect, man. Everybody has weaknesses, and it's the whole team's job to make up for those weaknesses. Now, I think it's admirable that you're so concerned for his safety," and here the sarcasm had fairly dripped off the other man's tongue, "but maybe you should focus less on his shortcomings and working more on working together to make sure nobody's shortcomings get someone else killed."  
  
    The former hunter had given a jaunty salute and strolled out, and Clint had leaned back against the wall, watching as Rumlow helped Thompson up and escorted him to the infirmary.  
  
    All in all, it was hard to dislike Winchester, even if he was ridiculously narrow-minded when it came to what constituted good music, regularly scoffed at his acrobatics training because he felt it was emasculating, and liked pie way too much. And damn it, Clint didn't want to like the guy, because he still didn't know how well he could trust him. He didn't want to get close to him just to get a knife in the back. Which, he supposed, is why he never bothered to get to know him in person, sticking to his creeper routine of following him around and latching onto every detail Nat chose to divulge.  
  
    He knew the guy wasn't loyal to SHIELD. He had no reason to be. The only thing SHIELD had over him was the alternative choice of going to prison for the rest of his life and a promise to find his father for him. A father that didn't seem to want to be found, Clint thought privately, and he couldn't help but also think that maybe it was better that way.  
  
    "So. We're here. Where's Winchester?" Nat said abruptly, tearing Coulson's concentration from whatever he was reading and ripping Clint from his musings. "And what is it about that book that's got you so obsessed?"  
  
    Coulson was too controlled to roll his eyes, but they could hear the urge to do so in his voice. "It's always best to be prepared, Agent Romanov. You know that. And seeing as you're the only one of us who's had an encounter with the supernatural, I'd think you'd be a lot more interested in what's in this book."  
  
    "I've already been through it," she reminded him. "You know I prefer to see things for myself. It's all extremely useful information, but using it as your only guide in this new situation could be problematic."  
  
    "I hardly think I'll lose the ability to think for myself, Natasha. I'm just trying to learn what I can before stepping into something like this." He continued paging through. "There's nothing in here that might suggest why these coordinates were so important to John Winchester." Snapping the book shut, Coulson tucked it into the duffle slung over his shoulder and peered around. "Fan out and do a spiral search, see if you can't spot anything-"  
  
    Clint straightened up, hand slicing through the air in a gesture for silence, head tilted. His companions straightened as well, turning so the three of them were facing outward.  
  
    It wasn't the tread of anyone trying to be quiet - the way the weight was distributed, the confidence, and the speed suggested a couple of semi-competent hikers, and one exceptionally competent hiker. They weren't trying to sneak up on anyone, and Clint watched as Coulson and Natasha relaxed. He followed suit, and as his companions stepped silently back into the underbrush, he turned and scaled the nearest tree swiftly.  
  
    There were three of them, as he'd figured - a girl, a boy, and a man. They were all laden down with packs, and the man carried a hunting rifle. They paused for a moment, the man checking his GPS as the boy and girl edged closer together.  
  
    "We'll find him, Ben," the girl murmured as the boy kicked idly at a clump of leaves. "He's out here, and we're going to find him."  
  
    "I know."  
  
    Clint's gaze slipped over to Coulson, who was looking up at him with lips pressed in a thin line. His handler gave a slight shake of his head, and Clint relaxed back further against the trunk, balancing easily as he watched the trio traipse further into the woods. When they'd vanished, Clint descended, frowning.  
  
    "Are you sure you don't want to question them, sir? They seem to be looking for someone, as well."  
  
    "We'll observe them, Barton, but no contact until we know whether or not they know anything about John Winchester or the circumstances of his disappearance."  
  
    Clint and Natasha nodded, preparing to follow the trio, when the girl's anxious cries began echoing through the trees.  
  
    "Oh, God, Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!"  


* * *

  
  
    SHIELD wasn't exactly what Dean Winchester had expected it to be. For one thing, they were incredibly open about things. There was no hedging around why places were off limits ("Weapons testing, and no, you can't go look, it's classified."), no bones about the fact that he was being monitered ("There are no cameras in your room, but you are being watched closely from the moment you step outside your quarters."), and definite answers about when he'd be allowed out of the building ("When you've successfully completed your first six months, you'll be allowed out with an escort.").  
  
    The problem with SHIELD, in Dean's opinion, was that it was entirely made up of people who made a living off of being shady motherfuckers, which had the side effect of making them simultaneously untrustworthy and untrusting. Incredibly untrusting, especially of their own people, although Dean supposed that for a top-secret spy organization that essentially ran the world from the shadows, they were less cynical than they probably should be. Whatever the case, joining SHIELD didn't make Dean more trustworthy to his new coworkers. In fact, it seemed to make him less trustworthy.  
  
    It wasn't the regular precautions (being watched closely and all that) that clued Dean in. It was the way that eyes followed him everywhere, even in the mess hall. He could feel it like a non-itch between his shoulderblades - someone watching him, without hostility but with a metric ton of suspicion.  
  
    Whatever. Dean could handle a little suspicion. He'd joined their little circus, he'd jump through their hoops, but he wasn't looking for acceptance, and he didn't need it, so if no one wanted to hang with him at the watercooler, he could deal.  
  
    At the moment, though, Dean was having a trouble dealing with something a little more immediate. Or, rather, someone.  
  
    "You are an agent of SHIELD, now, Winchester, you need to start acting like it," Morris snapped, arms crossed belligerently as he blocked Dean's attempted exit.  
  
    Dean grumbled internally - the man really thought he could out-belligerent Dean Winchester? Ha.  
  
    It should be noted that Dean himself didn't think Agent Arthur Morris was a bad guy. He was a good handler, honestly, if a little too stern and quick to give orders. Dean hadn't been lying when he'd told Coulson that he only followed one man's orders, at least easily, but to his credit, he did try, and Morris was usually decent at meeting him halfway.  
  
    The man kind of reminded Dean of a friend of the family named Bobby Singer - gruff, unshaven, and looked incredibly out of place in a suit, though the Brooklyn accent threw the younger man off a little. He put Dean in mind of a grizzly bear sometimes, from the way he rumbled when he talked to the way people sort of scattered before him when he took to the corridors. A likeable kind of guy, and beyond their days-old handler/asset relationship, they'd taken something of a shine to each other.  
  
    Today, though, they seemed to be at an impasse.  
  
    "Dude, I don't know what you want from me," Dean groused, arms akimbo. "I've already told you, this isn't my thing."  
  
    "Computer science is a basic requirement of all agents, Winchester," Morris persisted, jerking his chin back towards the bank of computers humming away innocuously. "I know you're not exactly computer illiterate, kid, so sit your ass down and let us shove at least a little knowledge into that hard head of yours."  
  
    "Man..." Sending the computers a long-suffering look, Dean slumped down in front of one in an exceptionally petulant manner. "One day off, is that too much to ask?"  
  
    "Hey, if you want to spend another week in your quarters with nothing to do, be my guest," Morris snorted. "I thought you'd be glad to get a change of scenery."  
  
    "If you're that concerned about my cabin fever, you could just take me to Denny's or something," the younger man grumbled under his breath.  
  
    "Tell you what," his handler offered after a long, irritated pause during which Dean was positive the man was counting backwards from ten, "you do your goddamn computer training without the bitching, and I'll see my way towards picking you up a piece of pie on my way in tomorrow."  
  
    Dean perked up. "Careful there, Artie," he chirped, cracking his knuckles and wiggling his fingers dramatically over the keyboard. "you're starting to get to know me."  
  
    "Agent Morris?" Neither man flinched at the interruption - Tom Thompson was not a quiet seven-foot-tall nerd - and Thompson continued as though they'd bothered to acknowledge him. "You and Winchester are to report to Fury's office with me."  
  
    Eyes narrowed, Morris reached out and slapped Dean upside the head. "What the hell have you done now, Winchester?"  
  
    "Ow! Dude, what the f-"  
  
    "He has a mission for you," Thompson cut in hesitantly, his face seeming to be unable to choose between confusion and amusement.  
  
    "Oh." Standing up and taking a moment to straighten his suit and do his tie back up, Morris reached out blindly, grasped the back of Dean's tee shirt, and yanked him out of his chair unceremoniously. "Let's go, then."  


* * *

  
  
    Clint groaned, blinking blearily up at the canopy as consciousness returned. What the hell had-?  
  
    Ignoring the sudden pounding of his head and the protest of the half-scabbed claw marks running across his back from his left shoulder to his right hip, Clint sat up and rolled to crouch on one knee in a single, somewhat clumsy motion. He drew his sidearm and frowned as he catalogued his injuries and his surroundings in tandem.  
  
    The claw marks were shallow - Clint had barely dodged enough to avoid having himself shredded. Besides that, there was a throbbing in his right wrist that he interpreted as sprain, possible hairline fracture, which was just his luck, and his headache, he knew, was the product of having been thrown headfirst down a hill and into a tree by Natasha when...  
  
    Clint chewed on the inside of his cheek, standing carefully and half-closing his eyes against his aches and pains. He would have time to worry about them later, hopefully, because right now, he had people to find. Whatever had attacked them, it had been impossibly fast, frighteningly savage, and unfortunately smart, as evidenced by the way it had lured them out into the forest only to use the distraction to make off with the gear the hikers had been carrying. Luckily, it wasn't SHIELD policy to store your necessities in an easily-lost duffel, so they hadn't been completely without hope. Still, whatever the thing was, it had been cunning and quick, which made it officially Clint's least favorite kind of thing.  
  
    'Most likely not a bear,' he thought to himself wryly, fumbling for his phone even as the world tried to tilt sideways - in more ways than just one. Peering at the cracked screen, he groaned softly. Definitely out of commission.  
  
    "Someone oughta let Stark Industries know their products aren't creature-proof," he muttered, shoving it back into his pocket. There went both his plan to trace Coulson, Nat, and the hikers, and his research idea. Now he was stuck, injured, in the middle of the woods in the middle of Colorado with no idea how to take down the mythical creature that had kidnapped his team, no way to contact SHIELD, and no clue as to where the nearest ranger station was.  
  
    He held out hope that SHIELD was sending backup - Coulson had sent out what Clint liked to call an SPGBU (Situation Potentially Going Balls-Up) when they'd retreated back to the campsite, a coded message to inform HQ that the mission had taken a bit of a wrong turn and might not end up going their way. It was a few steps removed from a Code Red, which Clint had renamed Code Fuck Codes Why Are We Wasting Time With Codes Shit's Fucked Up And We're All Gonna Die Bloody, generally shortened to Gonna Die Bloody or GDB, because Code Red was boring.  
  
    Not that SHIELD Ops appreciated his attempts to makeover their more staid and traditional methods, but Clint felt the thought was what was important. He was a big believer in leading by example, after all.  
  
    The point being, even if they weren't aware that the situation had gone from Going Balls-Up to Gonna Die Bloody, SHIELD knew that their Find John Winchester Bus had gone a little off-road in bumpy terrain, but Clint had no idea A) when help would be arriving, 2) what kind of help would be arriving, and lastly) if it would do any good or if they were all doomed to...well, die bloody.  
  
    At least, he thought as he located his bow, half-hidden in the understory, he wasn't entirely helpless. Maybe it wouldn't kill the thing, but there wasn't anything on earth that didn't at least pause for a second after taking an arrow to the eye.  
  
    Frowning at his bow, Clint shivered a little and hoped it wasn't the onset of shock.  
  
    There wasn't anything like that...was there?  
  
    For the first time, Clint wished they'd listened when Nat had suggested they bring Dean Winchester, because if there was one thing this little camping trip could have used, it was a hunter.  


* * *

  
  
    "You know," Nat murmured as she cut the hikers' brother down from where he was dangling, "this is exactly why I felt putting off looking for John Winchester until Dean could join us would be ideal."  
  
    "Really, Agent Romanov," Coulson intoned, not really managing to keep every bit of 'if you rehash this one more time I will get very severe with you' he felt out of his voice. "And what do you think Dean could do in this situation that would be so helpful?"  
  
    She knelt down to rummage through the packs for anything that could possibly help them turn the situation into something less definitely fatal, keeping one eye on the three reunited siblings and pointedly ignoring both the sticky, mostly-skeletal remains dangling not two yards away and the sharpness in her handler's tone. "The short list? He could tell us what this thing is. What it wants. Its weaknesses. Its strengths. How to escape. How to kill it. How to escape after killing it-"  
  
    "You spend too much time with Barton," Coulson sighed, crouching down beside her to look for John Winchester's Journal.  
  
    "Pretty sure that came from Dean, actually," she allowed, dark humor glinting in her eyes.  
  
    "Be that as it may, we might not be hard-put without him if I can find the book."  
  
    "This book?"  
  
    Coulson looked up at the youngest of the hikers, Ben, before his gaze dropped to the old leather-bound journal he held.  
  
    "Yes. Where...?"  
  
    "In the corner," Ben answered quietly, eyes darting over towards a pile of bones that hadn't quite been divested of all their flesh.  
  
    Coulson nodded. "Thank you." He settled back on his heels and cracked the book open, peering at the cramped writing, newspaper clippings, and rough drawings with the keen interest of someone studying a bomb-disposal manual with ten seconds left on the clock.  
  
    Nat strapped another knife to her belt, then paused. She tilted her head, and everyone froze.  
  
    From somewhere within the mine, a low growl echoed, and the sound of footsteps drew closer.  
  
    "Read quickly," Nat hissed, reaching out for the hikers and putting them behind herself, eyes darting around to take in potential exits. "I think we're about to have company."  


* * *

  
  
    "Oh, good," was the first thing Dean heard when he exited the chopper. "I was hoping they'd send you."  
  
    For years afterward, he'd gloat about what happened next, which was he swept the speaker's feet out from under him, pinned him, and got his knife to the guy's throat before stopping suddenly at the feel of cold steel against his inner thigh.  
  
    'I got you first,' he'd crow, and the other man would roll his eyes.  
  
    'I got you second,' he'd retort. 'And I was injured, and really, we both know how that would have ended if I hadn't been.'  
  
    Dean would laugh in his face. He'd try to shove Dean off the couch. Nat would call them both twelve-year-olds. It would be fun.  
  
    But that would be afterward. At the moment, he was more concerned with figuring out if he needed to be slicing this guy's throat, not to mention how to do it without getting diced up, himself. It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that the person he was menacing was SHIELD, and that he already looked like he'd gone a few rounds with a lawnmower.  
  
    "Nice to meet you, too, Winchester," the man drawled, apparently unfazed by Dean's hair-trigger. "I'm Agent Barton."  
  
    Barton. Meaning Clint Barton. Meaning Nat's benefactor. Meaning the guy Dean should probably not do any further bodily harm to on pain of Nat being unhappy in his direction. Grimacing, he stood up, reaching out to help Barton to his feet.  
  
    "Sorry. Been outta the field for a while, ya know?"  
  
    "Well, your reflexes haven't suffered for it," Barton replied, rolling his shoulders and wincing, sheathing the stiletto that he had, Dean realized with a bit of discomfort, been holding to Dean's balls.  
  
    Dean had a sort of map in his head. Well, more like one of those web graph things English teachers across America had tried to make him do to brainstorm essays.  
  
    They'd tried to make him do the essays, too, with about as much success.  
  
    Anyway, this particular web graph branched out from a central point that read 'Preferred Methods'. It branched into smaller webs with headings like 'Shoot In The Face', 'Remove Head With Machete', 'Light On Fire', and his least favorite, 'Cut Into Tiny Pieces With Whatever Sharp Object Is Handy', mostly because it was messy and smacked of anger management problems that made even Dean Winchester cringe. And branching out from each of these headings were little spokes that bore the names of hunters he'd known in the past.  
  
    Of course, 'Remove Testicles With Incredibly Sharp Knife' wasn't really reserved for hunters, so much as one night stands that had gone horribly wrongly, but Dean mentally added a little 'Clint Barton' spoke to that web and tried to subtly readjust himself until he couldn't feel the edge of the blade anymore.  
  
    "Femoral artery," Barton said suddenly with a little smirk.  
  
    Dean blinked. "Excuse me?"  
  
    "I wasn't going to cut off your junk," Barton elaborated, smirk tipping over into a full-fledged grin. "I was going to slice into your femoral artery and let you bleed out all over the shrubbery."  
  
    Dean manfully resisted squeaking 'ni!' (because he wasn't a nerd, thankyouverymuch) and opted instead for a slightly uncomfortable, "oh."  
  
    Barton shrugged, peering over at the chopper where Morris was giving last-minute orders to the pilot. "Well, you hunt ghosts. I guess it's a bit different when you kill them the second time."  
  
    Coming from Nat, that comment would have been disturbing, going against Dean's nature as it did to harm humans, but the way Barton said it had Dean cracking a grin. "Yeah," he replied. "Just a little."  
  
    He didn't remove Clint Barton's spoke, though. Call it a hunch, but he was pretty sure it wasn't all that inaccurate. A quick once-over told him that Barton was proficient at many things - he carried a sidearm, several knives, and for some reason an honest-to-god bow and quiver of arrows. He was picking up a hunting rifle that left smears of blood on his fingertips as Morris joined them, and Dean knew from how he held it that it wasn't simply a weapon of opportunity.  
  
    "Agent Barton," Morris snapped, all business. "Report."  


* * *

  
  
    Clint didn't have to reach back to see if the wounds on his back had started bleeding through his slapped-together patch job - he could feel that they had, especially since Winchester had thrown him.  
  
    He hadn't been kidding when he'd complimented the guy's reflexes. It made sense to him, considering the kind of creatures he'd been hunting his entire life. If even a handful of them were half as fast as whatever was in the woods, Clint was willing to bet hunters were pretty quick off the mark in general.  
  
    That, or dead.  
  
    Shaking off his musings, he came to attention and started off through the woods, leading the pair back towards the campsite. "At about 1730 last night, we reached the coordinates John Winchester left in his journal. We found nothing of note to explain why he'd marked the location down, but we did come across three hikers - two looking for a lost brother and one guide - as they stumbled upon a campsite." He paused, rounding a boulder. "This campsite."  
  
    He heard Winchester swear under his breath and paused again. When the man made no move to speak further, though, Clint continued, watching as Morris and Winchester took in the details - shredded tents, scuffed earth, missing supplies, and of course, the blood.  
  
    "We got the feeling that whatever had happened had to do with the coordinates in the journal. The guide, Roy, insisted it was a bear, but..."  
  
    "Bears leave bodies," Winchester muttered darkly.  
  
    Nodding, Clint gestured to the cleared ground. "We heard screaming in the woods, someone calling for help, figured it might be the missing campers. The kids looking for their brother headed right into the woods; it took us a while to get them back to camp. The plan was to regroup, maybe head out to look for any survivors, but by the time we got back here, the screaming had stopped and the gear the hikers had brought was gone. We didn't know what we were dealing with, so Coulson pulled a couple of protective...things from the journal, we drew those in the dirt, seemed to do the trick. Soon as night fell, it started circling us, but it didn't even try to get past the symbols."  
  
    Winchester knelt down, inspecting the symbols or sigils or whatever they were, murmuring to himself. Clint let him work, turning his attention to Morris as the man gestured for him to go on.  
  
    "Roy took a shot at it, then started to trail after it, outside the safety perimeter, Nat and I went after him. Heard him scream, then nothing. We headed straight back here to wait for daylight, made plans to get the two kids back to civilization before coming back with reinforcements, better intel, finding Roy and the missing campers if we could. We didn't make it half a mile before it came at us. Got me in the back," he winced, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "before Nat managed to push me down a goddamn hill and into a tree. Blacked out, when I came to everyone was gone. Found a few weapons, some spent shells from the hunting rifle and Nat's sidearm...and Roy. Some of Roy, anyway," he added, lips pressing together tightly for a second. That had been...ugly. "But other than that there's not much to go on. Don't even have my phone," he added with a little grumble, holding up the offending device, "so I couldn't track them. Which might not matter, if their trackers didn't survive...whatever the hell that was."  
  
    Morris took a moment to check his field dressings with rough hands, replacing them where needed and digging out a roll of gauze to wrap his torso in. "Any other injuries?"  
  
    "Other than a superficial head wound? Might have a sprained wrist, possibly a hairline fracture."  
  
    "Yeah," Morris huffed gruffly, "why don't we upgrade that to 'probable concussion' and 'definite hairline fracture', just to be on the safe side."  
  
    Clint shrugged. He'd worked under worse conditions, but he could see the order forming in Morris' brain. "I can still handle myself fine, sir. We should get moving as soon as possible - the longer we stand around, the greater the chances that thing'll kill everyone...including us."  
  
    "Not really," Winchester grunted, standing up and rubbing his dirty palms against his non-regulation jeans. "This thing doesn't kill quick."  
  
    Realizing that someone was about to make at least a little sense of this monumentally unpleasant experience had the strange effect of making Clint feel strangely giddy. The prospect that his team were probably alive helped, and maybe it was the concussion, but Clint couldn't help but feel a lot lighter and much less like this was a Code GDB. "Oh? Didn't take its time with Roy."  
  
    "Yeah, well, I'd be pissed, too, if someone took a potshot at me." Eyeing Clint, then Morris, Winchester sighed. "We wouldn't happen to have flare guns on hand, would we?"  


* * *

  
  
    Hailey was pretty sure none of these strangers were with the Park Service.  
  
    Pressing back until Tommy and Ben were wedged between her and the wall, she watched as both of their sort-of-saviors fended off the...the thing with a barrage of knives and bullets. It didn't seem to like them, but neither did they slow it down. It kept vanishing into the shadows, only to pop up elsewhere as they tried to escape.  
  
    "It's leading us," Natasha noted far too calmly for Hailey's comfort considering what she was saying.  
  
    "I'd noticed," replied Coulson, also eerily placid. "How much further to the entrance?"  
  
    "Too far." Jerking her head at the siblings, Natasha added, "Unless you think leaving them behind is an option."  
  
    "Negative."  
  
    Ben whimpered. "Who are these people?"  
  
    "They're not Park Service?"  
  
    Hailey watched as Coulson took a shot at the roof, caving in that tunnel while Natasha drove the thing back with a few knives to the chest, successfully trapping it behind the cave-in.  
  
    "No," she said faintly as the two strangers gestured for them to continue - however futilely - towards freedom. "No, I don't think they are."  


* * *

  
  
    "Lotta things you can kill with fire," Dean remarked as they loped towards the signal Morris had located. The hunter wondered privately which 'physical' they'd lo-jacked him during. Not that he was complaining too much. Sure, the government had him tagged, which was all kinds of creepy, but looking at the situation from this side, he could appreciate the thought.  
  
    He wondered where they'd stuck it, though. He was pretty sure it was probably in one of his asscheeks. SHIELD thought it was funny like that.  
  
    "Besides windy-goats?" Barton asked, half-joking.  
  
    "Wendigos. Yeah." Taking a second to do a visual sweep of their surroundings, Dean nodded. "I mean, not that you can't kill not-creepy-shit with fire. Hell, you can kill humans with fire. But I just mean in the sense that there's stuff out there you can't kill with fire. It's good to know which is which."  
  
    "Okay, kid, I'll bite," Morris sighed. "What's your point?"  
  
    "Rougarou, changelings, hell, with vengeful spirits ya gotta salt and burn the remains," Dean continued, pretending he hadn't heard Morris.  
  
    "Winchester."  
  
    "Not to mention all the ritual purposes. Purification, that kinda thing. Plus, like I said, definitely can be used against humans."  
  
    "Dean," Morris growled. "The point."  
  
    "Just sayin'," he finished, hefting the one flare gun they'd managed to dig out of the chopper. "This? One weapon between the three of us? Definitely not ideal when hunting. You should think about making them standard-issue. Maybe look into incendiary rounds. Something, man, 'cause this is kinda pathetic."  
  
    "Would it help," Barton broke in, "if I told you that I have incendiary arrowheads?"  
  
    Dean almost stopped in his tracks, startled. "You carry incendiary arrowheads? What, just on the off-chance you might need to bring down a World War II zeppelin during the filming of a Robin Hood movie?"  
  
    "Gonna come in handy today, isn't it?"  
  
    "Yeah," Dean allowed grudgingly. "But you gotta admit, that's weird. I mean, clearly lighting shit up isn't in the SHIELD playbook, or maybe we'd have more than one flare gun between us. Which, you know, was kind of my point," he concluded snidely.  
  
    Barton was silent for a moment. "Mostly," he said, "it's for setting off explosives or blowing fuel tanks. Sometimes for getting through armored plating when I'm out of armor-piercing rounds."  
  
    Dean did stop, arms held out imploringly. "What the hell do you do for SHIELD?"  
  
    "Oh," the older man replied airily, not bothering to halt in his progress through the trees, "a little bit of everything."  


* * *

  
  
    "We're trapped," Tommy groaned, leaning heavily on Coulson as he stared at the boarded-up exit. "We're fuckin' trapped."  
  
    Shoving forward and trusting Coulson to keep an eye on the tunnel behind them, Nat gripped a board in both hands and pulled. It didn't give easy, rotted as it was, groaning and protesting every bit of the way, but give it did, and she tossed it aside quickly, already reaching for the next plank, Hailey and Ben joining in her efforts.  
  
    A low growl from further down the tunnel, followed by the glint of eyes made for seeing in the dark, made Nat shiver internally as she went for her gun again.  
  
    She didn't scare easy, but some of these supernatural creatures made her very, very uneasy.  


* * *

  
  
    "A mine?" Clint snorted. "What a lousy hideout."  
  
    "Not so much a hideout," Winchester pointed out, "as a den. It's probably where the guy was trapped before he became a wendigo."  
  
    "Sorry, what?"  
  
    Looking over at Clint as they edged into the darkness, Winchester shrugged. "Wendigos. Start out human, end up eating other humans, turn into monsters that eat humans. Pretty straightforward."  
  
    Right, Clint thought, trying not to let his disgust show even though chances were slim Winchester could see that well in the gloom. Because of course there was some kind of weird origin story for these things. It couldn't just be 'wacky genetic anomaly' or 'odd undiscovered species' or something else easily digested.  
  
    'Do not think about digestion right now,' he grumbled at himself.  
  
    Clint could handle the talk about digging up bones, deal with setting creatures on fire, and all the discussion of decapitation and dismemberment and various types of ammunition that was effective against various types of monsters hadn't phased him at all.  
  
    But eating people? That was a little creepy.  
  
    "So, what, cannibals all end up like that?" Morris made a little sound in the back of his throat behind them. "Because I never met Albert Fish, but I'm pretty sure we would have heard if he'd been a wendigo. Sounds like the kind of thing people'd notice."  
  
    "I dunno what to tell ya, Artie. I mean, Fish, he was a Hannibal Lecter type, wasn't he? Serial killer, I mean," he added, inclining his head a little. "These guys, they weren't in it because they liked hurting people. They did it to survive, and the more they did it, the more they needed it to survive. It wasn't about pleasure for them, it was about starvation. Lost hunting parties, snowed-in settlers, trapped miners." He gestured to their surroundings. "So this guy gets trapped here with his miner buddies, they end up having to eat each other to survive."  
  
    Clint swallowed, eyes tracking over the dark tunnel. "Lovely. Let's try not to get trapped with him, huh?"  
  
    "See, that was my whole plan, Barton," Winchester hissed. "I don't know about you, but I love a relaxing evening of being eaten alive."  
  
    There was the sound of a thump and Winchester yelping a little more loudly than Clint was comfortable with, followed by Morris growling, "Sarcasm ain't pretty, kid."  
  
    There was another growl suddenly, from further into the mine, and the trio paused, listening.  
  
    "Was that-" The sound of brief gunfire cut Clint off, and his heart stuttered for a moment until a few more shots rang out, followed by the sound of either a wendigo in pain or a live pig being tossed into a woodchipper.  
  
    He was betting on the first one. Without waiting on Morris' orders, he plunged into the shadows.

* * *

  
  
    "We're gonna die," Ben rasped, clinging to his siblings. "We're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die."  
  
    Nat sighed, reloading as Coulson did his best to kneecap the thing. "Possibly. And if you want to spend the little time we have until then crying, that's your prerogative, but if any of you know how to shoot I can give you something less pitiful to do until then."  
  
    "I...I can," Hailey wheezed, shaking violently. "I can shoot."  
  
    Taking a second to look the girl over, Nat hummed. "Do you think you can shoot now?"  
  
    The girl glanced at her brothers and, her tremors easing somewhat, she nodded firmly. "I can." She took the handgun from Nat and licked her lips, checking the safety.  
  
    "Just don't shoot us," Nat advised, unholstering her other gun and moving to relieve Coulson so he could reload, as well.  
  
    The wendigo did not like being toyed with, she noted, trying at least to stay out of reach. It was somewhat easier to evade in the cramped tunnels - it couldn't get up any speed here, and while its reactions were faster than the average human's, so were hers. They'd pretty much ventilated every inch of the thing, though, and it didn't show any signs of slowing down. It didn't even bleed, Nat noted as she put three bullets into its skull. It just got even more pissed off.  
  
    Unfortunately, while Nat was not exactly low on stamina, wounds did affect her, and she did tire out, albeit long after most 'normal' people would. It had only been a matter of time before the thing got a good shot in, and that time had apparently come. She hit the wall of the tunnel, the thud of the back of her head against the dirt not especially encouraging, and found her knees giving out suddenly. Slipping down, she gripped her gun and attempted to make her eyes focus as the thing approached her.  
  
    For a moment, she imagined the blow to the head had jostled her sanity loose, because the shadows behind the creature were melting into a familiar face. Then she realized that yes, Dean Winchester was standing behind the monster, flare gun in hand, and she thought, 'oh...fire.' It took her a second to catch on to his wink, and a second longer to squeeze her eyes shut and shout "Flare!"  
  
    The flare lit up every corner of the tunnel, and there was a furious shriek, a loud curse, and then a great weight colliding with her, sending her head back against the wall again as Dean swore again roughly.  
  
    This hunting business was not Natasha's favorite thing in the world.  
  
    The pain in her skull gave way to a sort of floating sensation. For a moment, she struggled against unconsciousness, the desire to finish the job almost enough to drag her eyes open.  
  
    "Nat?" Dean's voice was close, his hands gripping her shoulders in an attempt to keep her upright, but everything was slipping...  
  
    "Nat!"  
  
    ...slipping away...  
  
    "Nat!"  
  
    ...  


* * *

  
  
    Clint grit his teeth as Nat slumped against Winchester, head lolling in a sickening fashion. He ducked under the wendigo's swing, drawing an arrow and nocking it. He was forced to roll away before he could draw, Morris doing his best to draw its attention with a bullet to the back of the head. Tumbling up against the wall next to Nat and Winchester, he grunted as his wounds made contact with the packed dirt.  
  
    "Nat?"  
  
    "Alive," Winchester bit out, dragging her prone form a bit behind himself.  
  
    Clint glanced around the tunnel, taking in Coulson crouched in front of three civilians, one of whom was joining him in taking shots at the wendigo, her aim far from expert, but the determination in her eyes more than making up for it. Still, in the darkness, it was a wonder any of them could hit the thing.  
  
    Seeming to read his thoughts, Winchester shifted slightly and mumbled, "Hope you're a hell of a shot with that thing."  
  
    Shrugging, Clint closed his eyes, listened for a moment, then drew back his arrow and released it in one smooth motion.  
  
    The dying shriek was piercing and viciously satisfying, but it was the sight of it - a long, lean creature made of bone and muscle just smoldering into nothing like a slip of paper - that really stuck with Clint. The incongruence of such a clean, simple death contrasted with the bone-deep ache and the bloody claw marks, the earthy, animalistic drive for survival...it made it unreal.  
  
    I couldn't have been so easy...could it?  
  
    "Okay," Winchester panted in the sudden silence. "So you're a hell of a shot with that thing, even with a broken wrist."  
  
    "I never miss," Clint replied automatically, leaning back against the wall uncaring of his injuries. And maybe it was the huff of laughter, or the feeling of Nat's shoulder against his, his best friend lying still and vulnerable, or maybe it was the fact that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dean Winchester would Get It, but whatever it was, it drove him to add, "I can't miss."  
  
    Winchester didn't reply, not even with another callous laugh, but he did gently maneuver Nat until she was leaning heavily against Clint. "Hang out for a second, Hot Shot."  
  
    Clint stared at the empty space that had been a ravenous, mad beast intent on killing and probably eating all of them only seconds before and nodded to no one, still not quite believing it was gone.  
  
    "Sure thing," he whispered.  
  
    It took a lot to make Clint think that someone had more fucked up shit in their past than he did. Not that it was a competition or anything, just idle observation. Now, though, he watched Dean explain things to Coulson like he was taking the agent through meeting minutes, and all he could think was 'dealing with the shit since preschool'.  
  
    Fucked up, for sure. And boy, howdy, did Clint know fucked up.  


* * *

  
  
    "What happened out there, Phil?"  
  
    Folding his hands behind his back, Phil considered how best to answer that question.  
  
    He could say that the situation had changed unexpectedly, that they had been unprepared but not reckless, and it had worked out.  
  
    He could say that in spite of the utter disaster their mission had become, every party had reacted admirably and had worked together almost startlingly well, including the civilians.  
  
    He could say that clearly John Winchester was either an idiot for not leaving any notes or warnings with those coordinates, or he was a son of a bitch who had some twisted desire to see his son mutilated and eaten by a ravenous supernatural predator.  
  
    He could say that he'd fucked up. That he should have taken the time to learn more about the variety of horrifying things that lurked in the dark, done more to make sure he and his assets were prepared for the mission they'd undertaken. That he was to blame and that now would be a good time to turn his assets over to a different handler before he finally got them killed.  
  
    For a second, he nearly sympathized with John Winchester.  
  
    Nearly.  
  
    Instead, he replied, "I believe that we should refrain from further exploration of the supernatural world until we've gotten more comprehensive intel and possibly some practical training."  
  
    "No shit," Nick Fury snorted. "The civilians?"  
  
    "Receiving treatment at the local hospital. They should be fine to return home soon," he added. "I believe no one received any injuries that will keep them off their feet for long save for Agent Barton."  
  
    "So I heard." Nick stared up at the ceiling for a second. "He fired blind with a cracked wrist and still managed to hit the, uh..."  
  
    "Wendigo, yes," Phil supplied, lips twitching. "He didn't just hit it, Nick," he elaborated, not even bothering to disguise his pride - everyone else in the organization saw Phil Coulson as a detached and professional handler, but Nick Fury knew very well that if anything, Phil regarded them almost as an older brother would. "The arrow struck the neck between C1 and C2."  
  
    "Hell of a kill shot," Nick said thoughtfully.  
  
    "Someday I think I'll stop being impressed by his marksmanship," Phil joked lightly.  
  
    "Hmm."  
  
    Waiting briefly, Phil coughed. "Sir? Will that be all?"  
  
    "Yes," Nick replied absently. "Report on my desk in the morning, Agent Coulson."  
  
    "Yes, sir."  
  
    Fully prepared to head straight to the infirmary, probably to do his duty as Clint Barton's handler and sit on his asset until the medics were through with him, Phil scrubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes and contemplated simply taking a bed down there himself and napping until Doomsday.  
  
    "Phil," Nick's voice stopped him.  
  
    "Sir?"  
  
    "There is one thing I'd like you to get started on for me..."

* * *

  
  
    "Who what-ing?" Dean asked, incredulous. He shifted on the uncomfortable infirmary bed, hyper-aware of Nat and Barton's eyes on him.  
  
    Coulson tilted his head in a way that reminded Dean sharply of a bird of prey and smiled innocuously. "Team building."  
  
    "Uh..."  
  
    "Don't get too excited," the agent said despite the fact that Dean had definitely made no indication of being anything like excited. "You're still on probation, but it's a good idea to start this sort of thing now, before you start going into the field together."  
  
    "But-"  
  
    Waving one hand in a distinctly dismissive way, Coulson took pity on him. "Fury's decision. He's adamant that no more hunting jobs be undertaken by SHIELD personnel without proper training, and he's designated Agents Barton, Romanov, and I, as well as Morris and yourself, as the first specialists in this area."  
  
    "Um."  
  
    "So we're going to take some time to recover," Coulson continued, nodding at Dean's taped up shoulder, "get comfortable with each other, etcetera, and then we'll be fitting in time for you to get us up to speed on the supernatural in between your regular training schedule."  
  
    Dean opened his mouth, but no further, bewildered sounds came out.  
  
    This was beyond joining an organization. Beyond having a handler. This was...  
  
    This was a team.  
  
    "What if I say no?" he heard himself ask. He wasn't sure why. Maybe something in him was rebelling at the idea of working with people who weren't family. Maybe it was the prospect of extra training, even more tiring than before.  
  
    Maybe it was the memory of Nat going slack in his hands, that split-second of panic before he found her pulse, the shivering feelings of helplessness and anger.  
  
    No, it was definitely the extra training. He liked his sleep, damn it.  
  
    But Coulson just smiled again, unperturbed as usual. Privately, Dean wondered what he looked like when perturbed. He wavered between 'hilarious' and 'terrifying' before deciding he'd rather never know.  
  
    "If we're going to make sure that further attempts to find your father are successful - or at least less of a catastrophe - we need to make sure that the entire team responsible for the undertaking is prepared for whatever we might face."  
  
    Dean laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. "Listen, Coulson, if there's one thing you can be sure about, it's that no hunter will ever be prepared for whatever they might face. And thinking you're prepared for everything is a surefire way to get your ass eaten."  
  
    Barton snickered, and Dean flipped him off without even bothering to look. The archer had been a little loopy since the medic had dosed him to the eyeballs in order to cast his wrist.  
  
    "Be that as it may," Coulson cut in, "I'd rather reduce the chances of something like this happening again if at all possible. Maybe we can't prevent it entirely - I'm certain there's plenty out there that would catch even you by surprise-"  
  
    Dean snorted.  
  
    "-but the more we know, the better off we'll be."  
  
    "I'd like to know more," Nat put in from her own bed. She was swinging her feet, looking to be back in perfect health, and what Dean wouldn't give for that kind of resilience, but from the little he'd gathered during his time at SHIELD, he suspected the price she'd payed was a bit high for his tastes. She smiled wryly when he frowned at her. "Not teaching us isn't going to stop us getting in the middle of it, Winchester."  
  
    No, he realized. It wouldn't. Because in the middle of this shady-ass government organization with its top-secret weapons development and its level after level of cover-ups and need-to-knows and its tracking devices shoved up people's asses, these three idiots had managed to develop a Saving People Complex. They were good guys, and as much as Dean hated to admit it, this had been pretty much inevitable from the moment he'd opened his big mouth and told Nat the truth.  
  
    They were already hunters at heart, and now that they knew...well, he couldn't do much more damage than he already had. And maybe, for once, he could help repair it. Or, at the very least, patch it up a little.  
  
    "Fine." Closing his eyes, Dean swung his legs up onto the cot and leaned back against the rough sheets. "After my nap."  


* * *

  
  
    Sam sighed, flopping back onto his bed contentedly. He was confident he had midterms locked down, and things were looking good for his entry into Stanford's law school. Best of all, his girlfriend had baked incredible cookies to celebrate their anniversary.  
  
    Life was damned good, and he appreciated it all the more for how utterly shit it had been before he'd left for school.  
  
    He contemplated crawling under the duvet for a moment, knowing he'd be asleep before Jess got out of the shower and almost not caring, but he was so bonelessly relaxed that even the thought of moving was laughable. Sighing again, he resolved to wait until Jess came to bed and bullied him into moving.  
  
    His grin twitched into a frown when something warm and wet hit his face. For a second, his half-asleep brin thought 'rain?'. A second drop hit his forehead, and then the coppery scent registered and his eyes snapped open to stare directly into Jessica's.  
  
    "No," he rasped.  
  
    Flames erupted from her body, her mouth moving around words he couldn't hear, the life in her eyes already fading. A wall of heat slammed into Sam as he scrambled up from the bed.  
  
    "Jess! No!"  
  
    Sitting up, Sam dragged huge lungfuls of cool, autumn air in, shuddering. He rubbed his hands across his face, flinching minutely when he felt Jess's palms press against his back.  
  
    "'Nother nightmare?" she slurred sleepily.  
  
    "Yeah." Swallowing against the bile threatening to rise in his throat, Sam turned and ran his fingers through her hair. He took a moment to just look at her, dozing off already, sweet and whole and happy. He let the sight fill his mind, pasting it over the images his dream left him with determinedly. "Just a nightmare," he breathed shakily.  
  
    "Hmm."  
  
    Waiting a moment to make sure she was truly asleep again, Sam slipped out of their bed and padded into the tiny kitchen, snatching his cell phone up from where it was charging next to his computer. Hesitating only a second, he pulled up his contacts and selected one of the ones he hadn't thought about calling in years.  
  
    "Dean here. You know what to do," the voicemail said.  
  
    Taking another deep breath, Sam cleared his throat. "Dean. Hey. It's Sam. I, uh...know it's been a while. And I know that's at least partly my fault. But I just..."  
  
    He glanced back towards the bedroom. He could just make out Jess, a warm little lump under the covers, and his heart rate slowed. How stupid was he? Freaking out over a recurring nightmare like some kind of...  
  
    No. He was a civilian now. And this was ridiculous. A couple of dreams didn't mean something bad was about to happen. Daring to be happy didn't mean everything was going to start crumbling around him. He wasn't Dad - he was perfectly capable of putting the past behind him and living the kind of normal, safe life he knew his mother would have wanted for him.  
  
    "I just wanted to say hi. See how you were doing. But I guess...I guess I'll call you later."  
  
    He hung up without bothering with a goodbye. He'd said his goodbyes to that life two years ago, every part of that life, including his father and including Dean.  
  
    Sam wasn't going back to that. Not ever.  
  
    Not for anything.

* * *

 

For those who are curious...

**Agent Arthur Morris:**

** **

**and Agent Tim "Tom" Thompson:**

** **

(Why, yes, that is Aldis Hodge, who played Jake on Supernatural. Let's pretend he's not Jake and that he's about a foot taller than he actually is. Kthnx.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god.
> 
> Okay.
> 
> So.
> 
> It's been almost three years since I started writing this chapter. Haha. Ha.
> 
> I'd like to say it won't be another three years before part three, but...
> 
> Haha.
> 
> Aaanyway. Clearly I'm fudging with the timeline of Supernatural a little. I DO WHAT I WANT THOR.
> 
> Also, just a note, I wrote pretty much everything after Clint waking up in a sleep-deprived haze over the last, say, twelve hours. And it hasn't been beta'd. So, yanno. Mistakes. Probably a few in there. I'll clean it up a bit once my beta reads over it.
> 
> I feel like thanking you all for your patience would be kind of douchey, so just...dudes. Y'all are seriously awesome. If, yanno...any of you are left.
> 
> Comment, please. Complain. Curse. Cry. Whatevs.


End file.
